


The Naming Of Solar Prophet

by RoryKurago



Series: Kurago [2]
Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Gen, Hong Kong Shatterdome, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-30
Updated: 2015-04-30
Packaged: 2018-03-26 13:24:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3852496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoryKurago/pseuds/RoryKurago
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The naming of Solar Prophet is a not an easy process when neither of her pilots is Peruvian and she means so much for morale. Cato taps the name cards on the desk, thinking, shifting through combinations like she’s looking for the key to someone else’s safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Naming Of Solar Prophet

**Author's Note:**

> Cato and Ima Moya are shared characters of artificiallifecreator and myself. (Faceclaim JaNae and Shanna Armogan.)  
> An Athene Noctua-compliant version of this can be found in 'Braids, Lorikeets and Baby Girls'.

**March, 2016**

 

“So we have no say at all.”

“Of course, you have a say, Señorita.” The Peruvian rep’s name is Soya. The twins are the only ones who don’t think that’s funny. “It’s just that this Jaeger represents a substantial investment for the Peruvian government, in addition to a huge symbol of morale for the public. We’d just like a name that is suitably… inspiring.” His hair is slicker than his tone but not by much.

It’s not that the twins are resentful (the Netherlands are never going to build their own Jaeger and Guyana doesn’t have six billion USD lying around). Just a little… disappointed.

It colours their tone when Ima pushes away from the table and the laminated cards spread out in combinations for perusal, saying, “We’ll think about it.” 

How long have they been fighting the reps now against _Inca Glory_ or _Soldadera Solár_? 

 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

It’s frigid when they exit the embassy. The PPDC car is waiting, but it’s winter and the wind bounds through glass-and-concrete canyons like a hunting dog, snapping at any exposed skin it can find. They bury their hands in the pockets of their quilted jackets before all the warmth from inside can escape. 

The waxy cards in Cato’s pocket press into her fingertips.

The Americans got to name their Jaegers. The Brits too. (But Ranger Pentecost was the Seoul Conference consultant; isn’t that worth something?) It’s childish to dig their heels in like this. But, selfishly, they’d always dreamed of naming their Jaeger as well. Against Cato’s fingertips, the embossed logo on the back of the cards is confused, fragmented, but it’s clear in her mind: the nascent South American Division logo in dull green ( _Cactus green_ , a voice like Ima’s at the back of her mind says unhelpfully. _Rainforest green_.) It’s important that the twins connect with the Jaeger too, Soya assured them; according to Doctor Lightcap, feelings of ownership help strengthen and stabilise the bond between pilots and machine. But there’s a stack of cards heavy in Cato's pocket like—what? Lego? Variables to plug into an equation?

Both twins pause beside the sedan and squint up the street into another gust of wind thick-sharp with the smells of used cooking oil and chemicals. It comes from the northeast: there’s a rubbery sting of kaiju blood in there too, and oily smoke. Their Han Chinese driver wrinkles his nose.

“I guess we’ll have to find something that works for everyone,” Ima says, glancing back from under her knitcap like she read Cato’s mind. She ducks into the car. A tendril brushes Cato’s awareness; she _did_ read Cato’s mind, _dwaas_. 

Her elbow knocks Cato’s as they settle into the back seat (neither willing to expose their hands to the cold yet). _We’ll figure something out. There's time_.

Cato lets her head loll back on the headrest to look past Ima out the back window. A cargo tanker is chugging through the channel, red paint pitted and bubbled at the waterline as testament to an encounter with undiluted Blue. Riding above that white characters at the stern mark it Shanghainese.

They have time, yes. But how much time?

 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Cato sits at the desk in their room shifting through the cards like she’s looking for the combination of someone else’s safe. Two together, nudge one aside. A different two, neither is right. Frustrated, she holds off setting down the one in her handand taps it pensively on the table. 

Something hits the back of her head. “Ophouden.”

Ima’s bunk creaks as she resettles her weight. Cato looks at the floor. The projectile was a scrunched up bit of paper—Ima’s handwriting scrawled through the creases like a cypher. 

The order gives the characters their meaning. Or does it?

Cato stops tapping. Turns the card over. _Nova._ She runs a finger over the slightly raised letters. This is one of the few that really speaks to her, that makes her feel like the answer is closer.

In her mind’s eye she sees stars exploding, cosmic forces ripping and tearing, hydrogen clouds spilling into space staining the black to lurid blue.

The card stock is slick like Soya’s hair; paler than his teeth. She puts it down. 

Another catches her eye. _Solár_. The embassy is neutral on ‘solar’ but—like Nova, this too brings pictures to Cato’s mind. 

Behind her Ima groans. “I can’t focus when you’re doing that.” Another creak of the bed. “I’ve had enough of this tidal calculation stupidity anyway. Give that a break too; we don’t have another meeting with Señor Soya until next week. Let’s go do something.” 

 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

“I’ve got it,” Cato gasps on an upstroke.

“What, blood on the brain?” says Ima. This is suspended sit-up twenty-three of thirty, in the third round of their gym programme. Cato’s face is flushed red as a tomato under her brown skin; her braid visibly sweat-wet halfway down its length.

It’s not a patronising question.

“Our name.” 

Ima grimaces at the spots dancing through her vision. “Hit me with it. I could use the distracting."

 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“Solár Prophet,” Soya repeats mildly, like he’s tasting the phrase.

“It works on a lot of levels,” Ima says as mildly.

“For us as well as you—the public,” Cato adds. She isn’t smug. From inside she can already feel warmth radiating out from the green-and-grey Jaeger waiting for them in Rack Twelve, half-built but already thrumming with strength. The twins stretch ever so slightly; basking lizard-like. 

Ima begins listing the nuances just in case Soya needs more convincing. Watching him with half-lidded eyes, Cato can see he doesn’t. Perfect ten for the Moya routine.

Soya stands up, leans over the table to shake their hands making noises about running it past the bigwigs. “But,” he says confidently, “I think for certain they will approve. This is a good choice.”

Cato ditches the cards on the table on the way out.


End file.
